


A Game of Thrones

by chasing_givenchy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Compliant Characterisation, F/M, Fred Weasley Lives, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Magical Creatures, Medieval Tournaments, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, Reality TV, i.e. Draco Malfoy or ANYONE ELSE does not wear leather pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_givenchy/pseuds/chasing_givenchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fred and George decide it's a good idea to organise a medieval-themed tournament, chaos and mayhem ensues. There's cider instead of Firewhisky, the most deceptively innocent <i>Daily Prophet</i> reporter recording their progress, and a Thestral that just won't do what it's told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game of Thrones

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Draco/Ginny Fic Exchange](http://dgficexchange.livejournal.com) at LJ.
> 
> Fred Lives (and so does Lupin in a cameo) because it wouldn't be this fic without him _and_ George. I must apologise for the explosion of _A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones_ references. They've all been explained in the end-notes of the fic, and it doesn't have any real bearing on the plot or understanding of this fic, except as a Mythology Gag.

**Pre-game Manoeuvres**

 

The first question on everyone's mind was the simplest one: where had the gold come from?

   Fred and George would just smirk whenever they were asked about it, much like the time they'd started their joke shop and bought the whole family expensive presents. Naturally, Harry was the first suspect.

   "Maybe we shouldn't have broken up," said Ginny musingly, when they met up for thick, foamy Butterbeers at the Leaky Cauldron. Hannah Abbott was pretending not to listen from behind the bar, and Harry looked tired from a new onslaught of scars. Being an Auror transformed him from the lanky boy she had once loved to a dashing man whom she loved in a different way. "If I'd known you were so rich you could throw away Galleons like that..."

   " _Big_ mistake you made there," he agreed. He had taken the break-up harder than she had. She was good at letting water slide off her back; Harry was the one who didn't quite know how to let things go gracefully. "Bet you cry into your pillow at night over it."

   "Every night. Drench the pillow case in a flood."

   "Or maybe it's just your drool."

   Ginny laughed and downed what was left of the Butterbeer in one gulp. "So. Will you do it? Will you be my partner?"

   He mimed wiping off a foam moustache, and she licked it off her upper lip. She saw his eyes linger. Or maybe it was just him thinking over what she'd asked. She crossed her fingers tightly under the table.

   "Okay," he said. "I will."

   She grinned, already able to taste the savage triumph. "You're half-Muggle, Potter. We'll smash the competition through the wall."

 

This was the first time the magical world had seen anything like it, and Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes was glad to bask modestly in the glory. They were going to call it Medieval Muggle Madness March, when Harry (who really _was_ half-Muggle these days) suggested it would be catchier to name it "A Game of Thrones." Ginny didn't see why; there was no throne involved. The twins promptly sought to remedy the situation by creating two hideous gold-plated chair-monstrosities, from which they would commentate. It was as if they thought this was Quidditch at Hogwarts all over again.

   "We can't be the judges ourselves now, can we, little sister?"

   "If we were, our little sister would score the lowest in every event."

   "You'll do no such thing, or I'll tell Mum what you did with Angelina and that that bowl of pancake batter." (To her surprise, both Fred and George looked guilty at that one.)

  It was going to be a tournament for wizards, conducted entirely without magic. It was the stupidest thing Ginny had ever heard of, and at the same time, she was unreasonably excited about entering it. There would be seven rounds, after the powerful magical number ("And because we couldn't be arsed to come up with more," Fred would later tell the _Daily Prophet_ , which was eagerly covering every second of this madness. "Not to mention," George added helpfully, "the cost. We don't breathe _[sic]_ gold, you know.")

   Each round consisted of an event that was straight out of the life of a medieval Muggle. Harry had been consulted extensively on this matter. Hermione (everyone's first choice) had given a depressingly realistic and historically accurate run-down of what medieval Muggles actually did. In contrast to that, Harry's fanciful romantic impression of the time was much more exciting. The seven events were going to be: archery, farrier, gold, hunting, shipping, strategy, and tourney. One of these events would also double as the "turncoat" round, but Fred and George smugly said the details were a surprise.

   The prize money was probably the biggest draw. Three thousand Galleons would be awarded to the winning team. Bill chuckled when he heard it; he said it was the same as the Triwizard Tournament pot, only adjusted for post-war inflation. (" _That's_ how you pay a debt with interest," he said.)

   Anyone who was of age could participate, and the response was overwhelming. "Not everyone can make it through, the poor things," Fred told the _Daily Prophet_ , or rather, the reporter's ample chest. "Only seven teams will make it past the first round. After that, one team is progressively eliminated as each round happens." Participants were allowed to come in teams of two, and a pair of joint winners would be declared.

   "Is it true that Harry Potter is taking part?" asked the _Prophet_ reporter.

   "Absolutely," said George. "Personally, we told him, 'Mate, you're the Chosen One. You're going to intimidate the competition right off the bat. Hang up your cloak and we'll be happy to bring you on as a guest commentator every now and then."

   "Because he defeated the Dark Lord—" The reporter, a former Slytherin and probably the daughter of some former Death Eater, had blushed when Fred and George snickered at the appellation. "Because he defeated V-Voldemort, you believe no one else stands a chance against him? Isn't that a bit arrogant of you?"

   They had seemed a bit shocked at that, but recovered quickly when they figured out the misunderstanding. "Oh, we're not saying that because of _him_ ," said Fred airily. "He's all right. Great to play Quidditch with and all."

   "We're saying that he's teamed up with a complete monster. _She's_ the one you should beware of."

 

The _Daily Prophet_ now dedicated a whole page each day to coverage of the Game of Thrones. Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes was seeing a sales boom like never before. Blaise Zabini seemed to take perverse pleasure in reading every square inch dedicated to the tournament.

   "No mention of you," he told Draco. His tone would have been nonchalant to anyone who didn't know him; Draco heard the laughter dripping from each syllable. "Such a pity, won't Pansy be disappointed now."

   Draco thought it was bad form to mock a man under his own roof; naturally, that was why he held back his devastatingly witty riposte. "Who cares? Let Potter get bogged down by all the expectations. I'm going to ride in and yank the rug out from under him, and then there'll be plenty of talk of me _then_."

   "You'll be the dark horse," agreed Blaise, lowering his gaze to his newspaper, a threat of a smile on his lips.

   The countryside whipped past the window of the train as they inexorably made their journey northwards. Portkeys had been ruled out because they were a form of magical transportation. London was just a speck on a map as the train carried the hundred initial qualifying participants to the location of the first event. The amiable (it was definitely amiable and not mocking at all) silence was interrupted only when their compartment door was thrown open with a loud rattle and Pansy charged in.

   "Only ale and lemon tarts on the food trolley," she growled, throwing herself down next to Draco. She put her feet up in Blaise's lap, her stiletto heels dangerously close to impaling him. Unperturbed, he politely moved her feet off himself and onto the empty seat beside him. "No Firewhisky, no Cauldron Cakes."

   Draco fished out a Chocolate Frog from his pocket, and she gratefully bit into the candy with relief. She tossed him the Famous Wizards card in afterthought. He checked it curiously (Hermione Granger, who never changed her name to Weasley) and passed it to Blaise instead.

   "They're taking this authenticity thing a bit too far," she went on. "I heard someone say there's rabbit and stew for lunch."

   "It's not so rigorously authentic either," said Blaise. "We _are_ travelling by train."

   Pansy looked surprised. "Medieval Muggles didn't even have trains?"

   Draco shuddered, summarising what they were all thinking of those heathens.

 

**Opening Ceremony**

 

Just by looking at the turnout for the opening ceremony and the first round of the Game of Thrones, one could be forgiven for thinking it was the Quidditch World Cup finals, with everyone gathered to watch England trounce France for the first time since 1982.

   "But without all the shocking pink robes," Fred was quick to add for the benefit of the _Daily Prophet's_ readers. He was rather facetiously referring to the team colours of the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, France's best team, whose membership overlapped heavily with the national team. "We like to see all that pink elsewhere, if you know what I mean."

   The _Prophet_ reporter probably didn't, but blushed anyway. George looked at her outfit (which matched her face) and wondered if she had any Fleur Delacour in her. "There was some pink," he argued, butting in. "In that lighting, Fawkes looked a bit like someone dipped him in candy floss."

   "Candy floss that was on _fire_."

   "I'd rather eat that than use pixies in anything ever again. They can keep their poxy dust, thank you very much. I'd rather keep my ba—"

   "Bacon," finished Fred, acting like the good twin with the wits about him for a change.

   Nonetheless, it was a huge success. Harry Potter got a big section to himself. His glasses were slightly foggy from the time the ice breathers had momentarily turned the stadium into a winter wonderland, but he was grinning as he gave the _Prophet_ a pre-game interview. He was partnered with Ginny Weasley, famously his ex-girlfriend and sister of the organisers. She didn't seem to like that bit and stormed off when she was asked if she and Harry had a double bed or twin ones in their new accommodation, and whether kindling those old flames would improve their tournament performance.

   (Harry looked a bit troubled at that, and he was distracted even when answering more questions posed to him. A little further away, they could see her crashing into a darkly-dressed blond man and heated words were exchanged in a fit of rage. "Isn't that Lucius Malfoy's son?" asked the _Prophet_ reporter, and Harry frowned. "How do you know _my_ name?" he asked rhetorically, if not stupidly. "Shouldn't I be Lily and James Potter's son, too? Or Albus Dumbledore's man? Those sound better." The reporter didn't have the heart to tell him that the Boy Who Lived or the Chosen One sounded much cooler than both of those options did.)

   Neville was quoted in the paper saying he liked the manticore bit the most from the opening ceremony, and that he'd look forward to encountering one in the tournament. (His girlfriend and teammate, Hannah Abbott, could be seen in the background of that photograph, laughing hysterically.)

   The opening ceremony might have been an overdose of magical flamboyance (with a generous side-order of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes products), but it was the last display of it anyone would see until the end of the tournament. It was going to be all Muggle from there on. Wands weren't allowed, and the points would be docked for even accidental and spontaneous use of magic. The events in question were all on a simple win-lose basis, so there would be no need for a panel of judges. However, a guest judge would appear for every round in the commentator's box with Fred and George. For the first one, it was international Quiddictch sensation and captain of the Hollyhead Harpies, Gwengog Jones.

   Ron Weasley seemed less defensive about his last name when interviewed. "Counts as a point against me," he'd told the _Prophet_. "Knowing those two, I'd probably never win if they had anything to say about it." He was probably referring to the famous Weasley impartiality, wherein his older brothers had been quoted as, "We'd rather undergo the cure for spattergroit than let our little sister cover herself in any more glory. It's not right, you know, she's small and vicious. Girls should be like Angelina, not the gnomes in our garden."

   Angelina must have been a reference to Angelina Johnson, George Weasley's wife, Chaser for the Montrose Magpies, and another participant. She was quoted as saying her favourite event would be the jousting tourney. Her partner, fellow Chaser on the same team, Alicia Spinnet, had given such a wicked smile at that, that Ron Weasley had better hope to first shore up some immunity from elimination during the chess event.

**Round One: _Robin Hood_**

 

The first round was called _Robin Hood_ , a name familiar to most magical folk, though many were surprised to learn he was no longer alive. It was an archery event and the rules were simple. Each of the hundred teams would be given ten quarrels and a crossbow. Each competitor would have five chances to shoot an apple off their teammate's head. The seven teams that finished the task with the most successful shots in the shortest time would go on to the next round. Naturally, all safety precautions were taken (using magic, of course) with a Healer on standby.

   "Honestly, you'd think that if they went to all the trouble of doing _any_ research, they'd at least finish the job," Hermione was heard saying. "It's _William Tell_ , not Robin Hood. Why even bother calling it Robin Hood, it's not like wizards could tell him apart from Robin Hood."

   Part of her nervous fast-paced complaining could be attributed to the fact that she was positioned on a thin plank of wood, a hundred feet above the ground, while her teammate was similarly suspended on an even thinner plank of wood, fifty feet away, armed with a crossbow. A shiny red apple was balanced precariously atop her suspiciously straight hair.

   "Hermione," grunted Ron, "will — you — _please_ —hold — still?"

   This was a bit hard to do, because the plank on which she stood was slowly _rotating_.

   Many missed their shot; one poor wizard accidentally fired his into his teammate's shoulder. The quarrel passed harmlessly through, but he lost his confidence for the remaining two chances. Cho Chang lost her footing on the plank, but the apple was enchanted to stay on her head even as she fell. As she hung one-handed from the plank, trying to haul herself up, Padma Patil calmly shot the apple off. The impaled fruit shimmered and glowed and then disappeared, only to be replaced by another one. The second quarrel punched through it almost at once.

   "Close your eyes and think of England," was Harry's advice to Ginny when it was their turn.

   Draco wondered aloud to Pansy if that was what Weasley had thought to herself during her relationship with Potter. Pansy's appreciative snicker soothed his ego, where Weasley had bodily punched him a few hours earlier. ("Collided with you," corrected Blaise, unimpressed by Draco's description of events. "I didn't see any flying fists." That was only because Malfoys were too gentlemanly to hit girls.) Those gentlemanly apprehensions carried over to their turn on the planks. Pansy put an end to it at once by shrieking, "Draco, you have five seconds to make all five shots, or you will not like what I'll do to you with a turkey baster." Spurred by the laughter of an entire stadium, a red-faced Draco followed through. The laughter turned to applause when he managed to make it in just under twenty seconds.

   To no one's surprise, Chang and Patil placed first in _Robin Hood_. As they high-fived each other victoriously and blew kisses to the crowd, Gwengog argued for giving them an extra point for flair alone. The other six teams to make it through were Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, Draco and Pansy, Hannah and Neville, Harry and Ginny, Hermione and Ron, and Justin Finch-Fletchley and Terry Boot. Harry and Ginny's scores ushered them into the qualifying bracket a hair's breadth above Colin Creevey and Romilda Vane. Ginny let out an exultant whoop and jumped up, throwing her arms around Harry's neck. " _Winning_!" she yelled, landing a loud smacking kiss on her partner's nose, which created a commotion in the commentator's box above them. Harry, for his part, was cursing the Weasley genes, which made her almost as tall as he was.

 

Afterwards, the seven teams were relocated from the magical tents they'd been staying in, to permanent accommodation. The stadium was just outside the magical village of Castamere. Castamere Hall, an old but dilapidated manor given to public trust, was let out for the tournament's purpose. It was spacious enough to house ten times their current number. Fred and George explained that they'd be staying there, too, along with the guest judge of the day because it would make travelling that much easier. What was more, they said, even after elimination, none of the seven teams would be packed off home. Harry and Ron looked at each other awkwardly, but neither said anything and mumbled something about hoping to be competing against each other right up to the finish. Draco had no such tact and loudly proclaimed this was the twins' innovative way of rubbing salt into the losers' wounds.

   "Is that true?" asked the _Prophet_ reporter, her eyes wide.

   Fred coughed and turned away, and George loudly protested it was not. They were being uncharacteristically unsubtle, which spoke volumes for their intentions.

   Following the first round, unpacking was chivvied in favour of a celebratory after-party to be held in the manor. Teams mingled freely, buoyed by the shared feeling of making it through where ninety-three others hadn't. Fred and George were making private bets with Lee Jordan about when the participants would realise they were _competitors_ and start sabotaging each other.

   Harry seemed as lost and out-of-place at a party as always, looking at once for Ron and Hermione. Ginny didn't take it personally; she was no longer his girlfriend, she wasn't obliged to rescue him from social situations. She just gave his hand a friendly squeeze of support, and went to talk to Terry Boot and Angelina Johnson. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brothers engulf Harry, and didn't regret the little feeling of relief.

   She saw Malfoy and his lot standing by the buffet table. Parkinson was trying to feed sugared cherries to Zabini, while also trying to look as alluring as possible with a face like hers. Malfoy looked as if he was trapped in a very small lake, surrounded by angry Mermen, and Ginny laughed to herself all the way to the bar. The laughter died promptly when she realised that there was no Firewhisky being served, only something called honey-wine. It didn't sound very appetising, let alone capable of getting her drunk.

   "Becoming a booze hound already, Weasley? Such a shame, it always gets them early."

   Her grip tightened around her drink and she slowly turned to face Malfoy. "I must have divined you were coming over to talk to me," she said. "The thought of your company's enough to drive anyone to drink."

   "If your hectoring doesn't make them do it first."

   "Those are big words, coming from the bloke who... well, 'was partnered with Pansy Parkinson' sums it up right."

   "I'll drink to _that_ ," Malfoy agreed graciously, plucking the cup out of her hands and taking a generous swallow. He made a face. "Merlin's pants, what did you do pour whiskey and sugar into this?"

   Ginny eyed the drink dubiously. "It's called honey-wine. Probably something like Butterbeer."

   "You mean something like _mead_. Ugh, it's strong." That didn't stop him from sampling it again, a little more appreciatively this time. "Potter must be terrible for you to commit to this alcoholism thing so seriously."

   " _You're_ the one who's currently drinking away his sorrows. And Harry's just fine, you prat."

   "Ah, Weasley, don't make me sing that song about blackboards and pickled toads."

   She didn't bother rising to the bait. "Don't make me hit you. Or bring up the things _you_ did when you were eleven. Or shall I bring over Neville and Harry, and we can reminisce?" She'd never seen anyone change colours so fast. Malfoy didn't look as if he liked a reminder of his past. _Good_ , she thought. First year hadn't been a breeze for _her_ , either.

   The next time she spoke to him was in the second round.

 

**Round Two: _Barbarossa_**

 

Fred and George were explaining that Barbarossa, the namesake of the second round, was a fifteenth century pirate, whose name meant "red beard." Draco saw that Pansy had tuned out. The very mention of pirates would have been a dead giveaway about the nature of the event, if only the stadium hadn't already been magically enchanted to become a sea. The kind with water and monsters. So much for no more magic.

   Each team would be put on a small barge. One person would steer from the wheel, the other would use miscellaneous fishing equipment found on board to defeat a host of small Kappa. All seven teams would compete simultaneously, and the last team to finish would lose the round. Draco had seen the size of the barge; he wasn't looking forward to seeing the Kappa. ("Those are really dangerous," he heard Granger whisper loudly. "Do Fred and George know what they're doing? I mean, this is a water _demon_ we're talking about, it says so in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. It likes human blood.")

   Since Cho and Padma had won the previous round, they were to receive an advantage in this one. A lot of fanfare and flourish preceded the reveal that their barge would come with a captain, Hope Greyjoy (who was also the guest judge), leaving both girls free to tackle the Kappa. Hope was the first witch to have sailed around the world in thirty days, which was the subject of her book, _Keeping Up With the Krakens_.

   "How much do you know about a Kappa?" asked Ginny as they went aboard. The deck swayed beneath their feet in the artificially choppy waters, and her stomach did unruly somersaults. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd been on a boat before: _two_.

   "Less than Ron," admitted Harry, stealing a glance across the 'sea' at Hermione and Ron's barge. They were too far away, but one figure was clearly visible, bossing around the other.

   "Tough luck for you, then, that I'm no Hermione," said Ginny a little more snappishly than she'd intended. She'd asked Harry because out of all her friends (and ex-boyfriends), he was the one who knew best how to get along without magic. Hermione would have been an even better choice, but she'd always been _Harry and Ron's friend_ , never Ginny's. They got along really well, but it wasn't the same. Certainly not the same as Harry and Ron, and she could tell Harry was thinking the same thing.

   ("Ron!" shrieked Hermione. "That's a demon, not a Hippogriff.")

   "If all else fails," he said bracingly, "our strategy will be to scope out whoever looks like they're winning, and to copy whatever they're doing."

   "How very Slytherin of you."

   "We're not in school anymore, Weasley," hollered Parkinson, from her barge that was bobbing up and down very close to theirs. "Being 'Slytherin' doesn't mean a lot."

   "Spoken like a true snake," muttered Harry under his breath, and Ginny nudged him towards the railing, stifling a laugh. "Oi, stop that. Why can't I steer? _You_ can play demon-catcher."

 

"Were you counting on that many people knowing how to deal with the Kappa?" asked the _Daily Prophet_ reporter. This time she was wearing a ridiculously heart-shaped neckline that Fred was having trouble ignoring, so George answered for him.

   "There was one team with two former Ravenclaws and a winner's advantage, and another one had Hermione Granger. We were just as surprised as you by the final results."

   She looked sceptical to hear it. The Game of Thronespage in the _Prophet_ usually had one tiny paragraph-long column for unpopular opinions about the tournament. It had been suggested that the game was rigged, which accounted for so many Weasley relatives and spouses in the final seven, not to mention the Chosen One himself, and several of his friends. ("Must be our fault for being so charming and well-liked," the twins had said in response. "The whole world's our friend. And our brother. And aunt. And cousin. And second cousin four times removed. We're a big family, in case you didn't notice.")

   "In retrospect," said the reporter now, "do you think it was a bad idea to have seven bloodthirsty demons loose in the water at the same time?"

   "George... do you think _that's_ why we got that strongly-worded letter from the Ministry this morning?"

 

Hermione, who had read every textbook from cover to cover, and had forgotten nothing knew what to do. In _theory_. Newt Scamander had been very clear. For one thing, the Kappa preferred ponds and rivers, and was already out of its depths in the sea. Resembling a mean-tempered monkey with a scaly exterior, it carried water in a hollow at the top of its head. If the Kappa could be made to bow, the water would spill, diminishing its strength. Not everyone was Hermione Granger, however, and the Kappa liked to drink human blood. The other competitors were buried too deep in fishing tackle and curses in the name of Merlin to lodge an official complaint.

   "Hey, Chang," Pansy called out, while Draco was safely ensconced behind the wheel of their barge. "Shouldn't you know all about these?"

   As Hope Greyjoy steered them closer to the Kappa, Cho's look of annoyance deepened. "I'm Anglo-Chinese, not some magical Oriental carpet." While the girls tried to figure out how to get him to bow, _he_ looked like he was figuring out how to feast on them. "Why couldn't we be fighting dragons? I'd trade anything for a dragon."

   Draco opened his mouth to let fly a dazzlingly witty pun, but a water demon was trying to scale its way up the side of the barge and Pansy gave a loud battle cry.

   "Got a cucumber?" Neville was asking a slightly seasick Hannah. She looked appalled at the prospect of going below deck to forage through their supplies, but he had a queer sort of glint in his eye. The last time anyone had seen that, a snake had lost its head and Voldemort had screamed. Hannah was obviously counting on her man for an encore.

  He certainly delivered on that promise. Using a potato peeler to carve his and Hannah's names onto the cucumber, he tossed the vegetable into the Kappa's open hands. "Those three are looking quite cosy on deck," remarked the _Prophet_ reporter, and Hope Greyjoy agreed it was a win for Abbott and Longbottom.

   "Good for Neville," Ron had said rather graciously, wiping sea spray off his face. Harry blinked a little blindly beside him, wiping his glasses because he hadn't been allowed to spell them dry. "He went from Hippogriffs to Kappas fast."

   "Beheading a devil snake obviously did wonders for his confidence," added Harry.

   "Only because he didn't have his toad with him." Malfoys weren't content to be left on the sidelines while others lapped up glory, and Draco's familiar drawl made the _Prophet_ interviewer beam. "I guarantee it freed up his hands for a change."

   It was Justin and Terry who lost the second round. Ginny was sad about them going because Terry had always been somewhat decent to her, as if to make up for his braggart friend, Michael Corner. They were able to get the Kappa to bow to them in record time, but they were both such terrible navigators that their barge had capsized first.

 

The competitive spirit had finally sunk its ugly claws into the residents of Castamere Hell. Justin didn't say much to anyone, and mostly kept to himself, stabbing his dinner moodily. Terry tried to be more social. Everyone told him what a shame it was because his team had made such good time on the actual task. After a point, he couldn't take the sympathy anymore, and with a strained smile excused himself from the large parlour and went up the stairs to be alone. Hermione remarked on how it would be nicer if they'd gone home, after all, and got an icy look from Hannah who tugged Justin by the arm, out of the kitchen and up a winding old staircase.

   Ginny was glad that the competitors were still allowed to carry their wands here, even if the stadium had magic-detecting spells. ("Big thanks to McGonagall for that one," the twins had said in the _Daily Prophet_. "We're a dab hand at breaking enchantments like that, and she's had too much practice casting them.") She was sitting by the fireplace, making the embers form funny faces on the brick wall behind the fire.

   "Making a mirror there, Weasley?"

   "That doesn't even make any sense."

   Malfoy didn't bother sitting down, leaning against the mantelpiece to grin smarmily down at her. "True, but I had to say _something_. Smile; your brother's watching."

   She glanced reflexively over her shoulder to see that it was actually George who was squinting at them in some surprise from across the room. Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be seen (thank Merlin, but maybe not, since she could guess what they were doing.) Despite the distance, she didn't need to see George's face to know what he was thinking. She was suddenly irritated by her family's conviction that she collected boyfriends the way some people did coins minted before the Goblin Rebellion. Then Alicia popped out of a corridor and dragged George off; and Ginny shrugged and focused on Malfoy again.

   "Shouldn't you be less nonchalant? I do have six older brothers, all of whom are ridiculously overprotective. So much as being seen this close to a guy—" She smiled innocently at him, perfectly aware that her height put her at eye-level with anatomy Ron pretended she was unfamiliar with, "—should instantly put you on their kill list."

   Malfoy seemed disappointingly unperturbed. "Are you going to be making promises all night long, or do you plan on actually delivering on that?"

   _Well, then_. Someone certainly seemed to be learning from his mistakes. "Speaking of your performance," she said, "you weren't as terrible as we expected today. I might have lost a few Sickles betting the wrong way."

   He threw back his shoulders, instantly adopting a more swaggering posture. She could tell that he was genuinely pleased by the compliment, despite himself. "That's what happens when you make the mistake of underestimating me."

   "No," she corrected sweetly, "it's what happens when I make the mistake of not accounting for _Parkinson_. I should have known someone who looks like a hound also has the tenacity of one."

   The corner of his mouth twisted down. "I'll be sure to tell her that."

   "I'm sure she'll take it as a compliment."

   Even Malfoy had to nod in rueful acknowledgement of that. Ginny still didn't like Pansy Parkinson, but that hardly detracted from her strength as a competitor. While Malfoy had fumbled and tried to bluff his way with the Kappa (he'd completed the task purely by dint of his policy of 'when in doubt, bow to a vicious magical creature ten times stronger than you'), Parkinson had grappled with the wheel, grim-faced and clenched-teethed. She looked like she had no idea how to sail a boat, but was going to win or die trying.

   Unfortunately, she seemed to apply that attitude to _all_ her endeavours, sometimes with less success. Zabini looked distinctly uncomfortable, squished into one side of the love seat with Parkinson practically on top of him.

   "Speaking of pansies," said Malfoy, mimicking what she'd done earlier, "did you know there's a whole flower bed of them out in the garden? Did you know there was a garden?"

   Ginny, who had overheard the twins disabusing Ron of any notion of plucking the rosebushes for a present for Hermione, just nodded. Then she twigged on. She glanced pointedly out the window; through the open drapes, there was a wide, clear view of the grounds. Bushes cut in interesting shapes zig-zagged a large fountain of a harpy. The water pouring from it glistened like silver. "A moonlit walk among the flowers, Malfoy?" She turned away, casting down her gaze, and mock-coyly peeked up at him from lowered lashes. "With _me_?"

   He snorted like a petulant dragon trying to breathe fire, and held out a hand. She clasped it without hesitation, letting him draw her up to her feet.

**Round Three: _Shakuni_**

 

Fred and George had a hard time explaining that the third round of the Game of Thrones tournament wasn't rigged. Even Ron, who should have been overjoyed, was wary of it. It didn't take the _Prophet_ long to hop on to it as well.

   "You said Minerva McGonagall helped you design some of the enchantments surrounding the tournament?" asked the reporter in a way that didn't sound much like a question. "Isn't it true that when Nicholas Flamel's philosopher's stone was being kept in Hogwarts, she was also responsible for its protection? As a Transfiguration teacher, didn't she create a gigantic sentient chess set, a game that Ron Weasley proceeded to win? You do see my point here, don't you...?"

   Ron himself certainly did. "It's a trap, wait and see," he was quoted saying, his face ashen. Ginny, who had heard the stories about her brother's first larger-than-life wizarding chess game, imagined he was probably having flashbacks. Or nightmares. "This is going to be terrible. Are you completely mental? Why would I be confident of success? It's obviously what Fred and George _want_ you to think."

   And yet it was difficult to guess what the twins had been thinking. They explained the rules of the third round with their usual gusto. This time, the stadium had been converted into a giant board with black and white squares for the strategy event: a chess game. The six teams would play each other, three teams for black and the other three for white. There was a limit of ninety moves, just because Fred and George liked to be difficult. The losing side would be split back up into three teams, which would play each other again. The individual team with the lowest score would lose.

   The teams were divided randomly. One on side there was, Alicia and Angelina, Draco and Pansy, and to their unbridled delight, Hermione and _Ron_. Black was Cho and Padma and Harry and Ginny, with Hannah and Neville. Since the latter had won the last round, their side would be given an extra twenty seconds to make each move. Ron didn't look like that bothered him especially, so the others on his side pretended to be equally confident. Ginny just thanked Firenze's poxy stars that Hannah and Neville hadn't ended up on the same side as her brother.

   "You against Weasley," said Pansy smugly, as they ignored Granger's clarion call to huddle around Ron and discuss team tactics. "There's something so very star-crossed about that, isn't there?"

   Draco knew at once that she'd seen him with Ginny Weasley in the garden, in the moonlight, under the fountain. He knew she'd imagined some elaborate reconstruction of events, all the better to mock him with. He didn't want to disabuse her of it; after all, 'sleeping with the enemy' sounded better than two people who soon ran out of things to say to each other. The infuriating thing was that he had wanted a different ending. Weasley was, well, a _Weasley_ , but she was one of the few people around who talked to him, and not just to bark orders or tell him to pass the gravy boat. For better or for worse, Weasley was the closest thing he had to a friend in this Game of Thrones, and he really preferred not to think about how depressing that was.

   "You've got cotton fluff between your ears," he told Pansy rudely, instead. "Might want to clean that out."

   The smirk slipped right off her face. He marched on past, shouldering his way between Chang and Spinnet. "I'm here now, Granger," he said, interrupting any lecture she might deliver. "And we're expecting Weasley to remind us why he's our king. This _is_ his one area of competence in this whole tournament, isn't it?"

   Weasley immediately changed colours from green to red. He drew himself to his full height (which was a disappointing couple of inches over Draco) and his cornered-rabbit look of seconds ago transformed into something that would make a troll proud.

   "Is that your best attempt at looking intimidating?" asked Draco politely. "I didn't know it was time for the mountain giant impersonations already."

   "Mountain giants can bash your head in with one swing, Malfoy," said Johnson coldly. "Ron. You were saying?"

   Bloody hell, this was like heckling the Gryffindor team's Quidditch practice all over again.

   "Malfoy, you'll take the king's place."

   Well, maybe he'd have to revise that sentiment. " _Finally_. A position actually worthy of me."

   Ron bulled over him, as if he hadn't spoken. "I'll take the queen, Hermione, you and Pansy are the bishops." Weasley, thought Draco, couldn't be all that stupid if he knew the wisdom of keeping those two firmly separated. Angelina, you'll be the rook, Alicia, the knight."

   Everyone, except Pansy, nodded, accepting Weasley's sudden leadership skills without so much as a blink of their eyelashes. They muttered wishes of luck amongst themselves. Granger looked whey-faced for some reason, constantly sneaking looks at Weasley.

   "Ron, remember—"

   " _Malfoy_. There you are. I want a word."

   Draco, who had hovering in the married couple's vicinity in the hopes of overhearing something delightfully incriminating, frowned. He didn't like being treated as a straggler who didn't take his role in the team seriously. But Weasley's ears were burning red and his whole face was set in stone. Draco threw him a bone and decided not to mock him for it. He let Weasley fall in step beside him, expecting to be told what his new kingly duties entailed.

   "Are you mad?" Weasley snorted, interrupting Draco's suggestions of how to cut through the other side's defences. "You stay put and let me do all the decisions, while the girls do all the defence-cutting. And well, Parkinson, too."

   Draco's blood flared to hear Weasley dismiss Pansy, but the freckly git had other things on his mind. "What's with you and my sister?" he demanded without preamble. "You two've been spending an awful lot of time together."

   Weasley must have been referring to the fact that his sister now lived in the same house as Draco, which meant they saw each other frequently at meals, in the parlours, in the kitchen, in the unused ball room of Castamere Hall, and in a bathrobe as the inhabitants of the house scurried around back and forth trying to find an available bathroom to shower in.

   "And why shouldn't we?" he said instead, just because he wanted to see how much redder Weasley could get before he popped a vein. "I'm a man of wealth and taste, and she knows quality vintage when she sees it. That's me, by the way, in case you were in doubt."

   "Fred and George are going to make your life hell, if you don't stay away from her," promised Weasley. "And then Harry and I are going to find you to dish out seconds."

   "Will Granger be joining us for this feast?" Draco hadn't quite forgotten the humiliation of being punched by a thirteen-year-old girl. "Don't be jealous of the fact that women find me irresistible and I like to indulge them. Just because you got married and got shrivelled—"

 

"Balls. That's all I've got to say to this," said Fred with utmost certainty. George looked a shade downcast, and it seemed to be brining his brother down as well. Not even the _Daily Prophet_ reporter's provocative knee-high leather boots could cheer him up. "There's no such thing as a winner's curse," Fred went on, because George wasn't about to chime in with a comment. It was unlikely to be because they were sitting on his left, his bad side.

   "So you're saying it's just a coincidence?" asked the reporter.

   "We're just saying that our little brother's bloody good at chess."

   "At an event that just happens to be something he faced when he was eleven years old."

   "It's been fourteen years, you can't reasonably predict he'll pull off the same thing."

   "He can't even recreate the one good Quidditch move he used to have in Hogwarts," supplied George.

   "You should blame Harry."

   "We never thought he'd be _this_ bad at chess."

 

Ginny couldn't help but agree with George when she read the interview later in the Game of Thrones page of the newspaper. Black had suffered greatly from the fact none of them were good players, and Ron was trouncing them with each tactical defeat and strategic victory. It had been mortifying when a giant black pawn had revealed it knew how to talk, by complaining about one of Harry's decisions that lost them a rook. Hannah had quickly taken over the reins after that, but Ron had wiped the board clean with them.

   "He was just that much better," admitted Neville, smiling a little ruefully at the _Prophet_ reporter. "It was inevitable, really. The real question was who was going to lose at the end of it all. Yeah, it _was_ a bit funny. Well, not ha-ha you're-a-real-laugh, not right away, but a couple of weeks from now, when it's not so fresh? You have to admit it was hilarious to see us on the board. I'd do it all over again, if I could, sure. Just... as an audience, this time. At least for the chess round."

   When the deep-sounding gong had resounded through the stadium, signalling the fall of the king, Neville had been stunned. Blank-faced and unable to comprehend it, he had simply stood dumbly for what felt like several dark summer-less years for everyone watching. And then Hermione had run across the grounds and thrown her arms around him in a tight embrace, and all feeling drained from his face as the implication finally sunk in.

    "Don't listen to him," Hannah had said, affectionately shoving Neville out of the way. "He just wants to look good in front of all the people reading about him. We definitely considered going home, back to Hogwarts for him, to my flat above my pub for me. Well, for us, actually..." (Neville looked around, startled, but a big grin slowly dawned over him.) "But he wants to stay in Castamere Hall. Support his friends, and all that."

   "I changed my mind," he said very quickly. "Especially if there's room for, er, two in the Leaky Cauldron."

 

**Round Four: _Makera Assada_**

 

It didn't take long for dark mutterings to begin when the horses were led out for the farrier challenge. The audience in the benches ringing the stadium collectively sucked in a sharp breath. "Where are the ponies?" demanded one clear, piping voice, before it was promptly shushed. Many must have shared that child's confusion, but soon cottoned on from the reaction of the rest.

   Alicia Spinnet involuntarily took a step back, looking the wrong way, and bumped into Angelina, who steadied her. Cho seemed close to tears, and Ginny took no pleasure in noting that even Malfoy was visibly afraid. He was staring straight at the nearest one, and it was watching him right back.

   "There's no need to be afraid of them," called out Rolf Scamander, touching one leathery, skeletal flank of the Thestral. He was leading it to the middle of the stadium, trailed by four others. Rolf was the acting guest judge for the fourth round, on behalf of his father who was on a jungle safari somewhere in the south of America, looking for Clabberts in their natural habitat. Any goodwill he had earned with Ginny for bringing Luna along with him, died (grisly pun not intended) when it was revealed that that the farrier event wouldn't be about shoeing _horses_ , but _these_ horses. From the green colour on Ron's face, she could tell he felt the exact same way. Next to him, Hermione was struggling to contain her revulsion when Rolf pulled out a raw slab of meat to throw to the five evidently hungry Thestrals, probably on loan on Hogwarts. Given how they were the rarest of all the winged horse breeds, it was the only place they could have come from. Ginny surmised it was only love for Hagrid that kept Hermione from openly denouncing his beloved pets.

   "Are you all right?" she asked Harry, who was the only calm one there. Pansy Parkinson was on the other end of the spectrum, having shrilly demanded of Fred and George a cancellation of the event in the name of bad taste.

   "They won't hurt you," Rolf had tried to tell her. "They're very docile. Look, they'll even eat out of your hand." Instead of giving her a sugar cube or carrot to offer the Thestral, he gave her the sack of meat, and Pansy looked like she might slap him.

   "Not really," Harry told Ginny, not taking his eyes off Rolf and the Thestrals. This might have been because Padma Patil was tugging Cho forward to get closer to them. "Never shoed a horse before. Do you think I should have paid more attention in Care of Magical Creatures?"

   "Don't worry," she assured him. Cho and Padma looked equally terrified as if they were approaching an Acromantula, but Ginny had to give them silent points for wanting to win that badly. "Not even Hermione knows anything about the subject. I doubt she could even get the textbook open, after the first ten times it must have tried to take her fingers off."

   It was announced that the Thestrals were there to stay. Rolf recommended striking up a good dynamic with them because they'd be crucial to winning the next rounds.

   "That's it?" called out Malfoy loudly. He was the one who was keeping the safest distance from the animals, Pansy clinging to him like a limpet. "The only thing to do is to stick a shoe these things? Where's the challenge in that?"

   Fred and George heard him from the commentator's box, and Ginny could only imagine the looks on their faces. It was Rolf who hastened to answer. The event really was as simple as the matter of fitting four horseshoes to a Thestral's hooves. The first team to complete the task would win. The suspicion was written clearly on everyone's faces, which was a better way of uniting all ten competitors than the fact that they could see Thestrals at all.

   (Rolf also explained that being a farrier wasn't easy; it involved knowing how to smith and how to take care of the animals. Hermione looked like she was going to launch the tournament's equivalent of SPEW on the spot. Thankfully, Rolf was accompanied by four of Britain's best farriers, one for each team to make sure the Thestrals would come out of it all right. The _Prophet_ reporter even told Fred and George, "That's rather nice of you." They simply shrugged, rather than make a wisecrack; it was as if they meant, "It was the least we could do.")

   Then, Rolf walked over to an empty part of the stadium, bending low before he whisked off a tarpaulin with a Disillusionment Charm cast over it. Under it, was a staggeringly high pile of horseshoes of different sizes and metals. It looked like a small mountain.

   Draco glanced at Pansy, seeing his own _oh bollocks_ expression mirrored on her face. Now, he was starting to get an inkling of why Scamander had been so airily cheerful when explaining the rules. The bastard. His outrage only increased to hear that Granger and Weasley, as the winners of the previous round, would be given a five minute head start before the rest.

   "This is ridiculous," Pansy muttered to him, as a firecracker (probably the handiwork of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes) went off in the sky to signal the start of the event. Granger and Weasley shot off like a bullet, reaching the pile of horseshoes. She didn't break her stride for a second, picking up a handful of the metal things, while he stood around and simply gaped like an oaf.

   "How are we supposed to find a shoe?" he bleated, and Draco _almost_ felt sorry for him.

   "I don't know, Ron," snapped Granger, tossing some back into the pile. "But I'm a girl, so I'm sure I'll figure it out, won't I?"

   The true reason why Fred and George had laughed when Draco had been unimpressed by the simplicity of the challenge, was driven home when Granger and Weasley ran towards their Thestral, armed with horseshoes. Their assigned farrier's face betrayed no emotion, but he took an infinitesimally small protective step towards the beast. When Weasley tried to lift the Thestral's leg to shoe it, it seemed as if he'd have better luck trying to tickle the sole of a giant's foot.

   Draco came to regret snickering at Weasley soon enough. Neither he nor Pansy had ridden a day in their lives. Horses were an affliction of rich Muggles; they were witch and wizard, damn it. Draco had tried to ride a Krup like a horse once when he was little, because his mother that exasperatedly told him centaurs were too big and too full of their own importance for that. His complete inability to get a hoof off the ground (Pansy looked ready to chuck horseshoes at him) was still not the worst thing to happen in the stadium: Angelina and Alicia's Thestral took flight, with the former still on its back.

   (Alicia snatched up the sack of meat from Scamander, hurling a hank into the sky. Pansy's derisive comment died on her lips when Angelina caught the disgusting thing mid-air and used it to tempt her mount back down on the ground. The stadium burst into applause all around them. Effing Quidditch show-offs.)

 

"You were saying..." The _Daily Prophet_ reporter radiated smugness from every pore. It clashed unattractively with the wonderfully seductive perfume she happened to be wearing. "Something about there _not_ being a winner's curse..."

   "Coincidence," said Fred, waving it off. He sounded much more cheerful at the prospect of having some of the charges of nepotism and favouritism being disproved. "You may have heard of it."

   "It's like a little a magic lining up of disparate events," added George helpfully.

   "We _wish_ we could have a winner's curse."

   "Makes things more interesting. You win—"

   "And you die. Tricky conundrum, that one."

   "But if you _want_ to get all philosophical on us, we can do that too."

   "Something about how this game isn't big enough for more than one Weasley."

 

The universe, decided one Weasley in a fit of rage, was a tosspot. The very thought of it throwing up something good was laughable. Even her surroundings were proof of that. The Quill and the Tankard, the sole pub in the tiny village of Castamere, was famous for only one beverage: strong _cider_. Hers was generously adulterated with Firewhisky, and her grip around the now-empty tankard was so tight that her knuckles had turned white. It kept her from flinging shot glasses and beer mugs at the nearest wall.

   "As long as it's not at my head, Weasley," muttered Malfoy, who'd obviously seen the telltale twitch of her fingers. "If I were to be terminally wounded, then who's going to listen to all your problems?"

   "My only problem is that we're both sober."

   "Sounds like you were planning on taking advantage of me."

   "How long does it take for you to cotton onto the obvious? I asked you to come here just so that I could get you hammered out of your wits and have my wicked way with you." Ginny's tone was as flat as her drink. The Firewhisky had been nearly tasteless, overwhelmed by the taste of apple. Ginny tried to signal a passing barmaid, but the pub was crammed to full capacity, with complete strangers sharing tables because there was simply nowhere else to sit.

   "It's because of the tournament," said Malfoy, hazarding a guess. "No one wants an _incident_ , probably, so all the good barrels of liquor are locked away in some cellar."

   She scowled at him. "Why does that sound almost reasonable? This can't be right, I'm not drunk enough for that."

   He rolled his eyes. "Trust you to completely miss the point of what I just said. There's _liquor_ here locked away in the _cellar_. Let's _go_ and _find_ it."

   Once again, Ginny was reminded of why she didn't _completely_ regret this decision. It began when she realised that Harry wasn't remotely interested in celebrating their first ever win in the tournament. When their farrier took one look at the Thestral they'd shoed and gave them the thumbs up, it took a full week to realise they were the first ones to have done so. (" _Winning!_ ") Harry, she decided, had a magic touch. From Buckbeak to the stories of Norberta and the other Gringotts dragon, he seemed to be absurdly lucky whenever they were around. She'd been so ecstatic she thought it might smash out of her like a wave. Harry had looked stunned and bewildered, but he'd been laughing when she flung herself at him in a breathlessly tight hug. They'd kept grinning deliriously at each other and egged on the others to finish, too. They'd cheered lustily along with the crowd when Angelina and Alicia were runners-up, and even more so when Cho and Padma finished ahead of Malfoy and Parkinson.

  That was when Harry looked at her, and she had never felt sorrier for her brother. Never extremely close to Ron, she and Bill had often talked about the giant white elephant that lumbered into the room ever since Harry Potter had chosen to sit down in a train compartment opposite a red-haired boy with freckles. She knew Harry had been genuinely happy in his profuse congratulations after the giant chess game, even though they all knew there was more to Ron than his ability to checkmate on a chequered board. None of it came through when they watched him lose to Malfoy and Parkinson (two names Ginny admittedly no longer uttered with the same revulsion she once used to.) Hermione took the defeat on the chin, and very gracefully, but Ron had never looked so beaten. It was as if he'd lost the battle, the war, the girl and the best friend in one fell swoop, and not some poxy tournament where wizards pretended to be Muggles for a day.

   Not that she'd had much of a chance to tell Ron so herself. Hermione had been determinedly cheerful when interviewed afterwards, but Ron had disappeared to sulk in some secret spot with Harry, and soon, Hermione was whisked away too. Ginny singly received congratulations meant for a team, and only Luna (who was still staying at Castamere Hall even though her guest judge 'friend' had finished his job) had thought to tell her that Harry would come back. Granted, she'd used some obscure Magizoology metaphor to make her point, but Ginny had been absurdly grateful for her anyway. It was moments like that, that she wished Harry would get his head out of the dark tunnel of his arse and realise that he was meant to end up with Luna, white picket fence and all. Anyone who tried to point out that Luna was very happy to be fed Plimpy soup by Rolf Scamander, was in danger of running afoul of a Bat Bogey Hex.

   No wonder Malfoy had agreed with her matchmaking aspirations so readily. She supposed that was what had prompted her to ask him if he was getting cabin fever from Castamere Hall, too. Malfoy might not have been her first choice for a drinking buddy, but he thought Harry was "the dumbest count...ryman alive" for not popping open the Charlie Champers to celebrate with her.

   "Wait here," he ordered Ginny now. "I'm going to go convince that barmaid to show us to the good stuff."

   The voluptuous woman certainly had plenty of the good stuff, Draco reflected. She was a refreshing change from the faces he saw every day. All his female co-competitors were either off-limits or mysteriously immune to his charms (fantastic face, incredible body, obscene amount of money.) Blaise had once said in a thoroughly off-hand way that even if Pansy were drowning, she wouldn't double as an inflatable life raft. Draco had never really thought of her in that light (not since they were fourteen, at any rate) and didn't like to do so now. (Misunderstanding his friend's irritation, Blaise had said, "Don't worry, she's heard that from me plenty of times, just like I've been told a lumberjack would find very little use for _me_ , apparently. It's all lies.) What he couldn't deny was that _Weasley_ — the good one — was similar. He hadn't ever cared to notice in shapeless school robes, but now, he'd have been blind not to. Weasley wasn't especially trendy or elegant, or even like the new wave of magical teenagers who dressed like groupies of the Weird Sisters. But she dressed well. And it showed off her ridiculously tall figure, with hips like the neck of a swan or a vase, a stomach flat like a washboard, legs that went on endlessly like Rapunzel's (or a Weird Sister's) hair, hair that he wanted to bury his hands in when he kissed her. There was no denying it. Weasley had put some terrible curse on him, and because of it, he felt a near-physical pull whenever he was within fifty feet of her. He wanted to slide his hands down those curves, wrap his arms around that waist, and pull her flush against him... because he was an idiot who thought girls wanted to sleep with blokes they loathed. Blokes, being the reasonable sex, didn't mind whom they slept with, as long as she was pretty. _Really_ pretty, and with a personality to match, and a blinding smile that seemed entirely wasted on damn Potter.

   "Oi, _you_. You're just standing around and gaping. Can I get you anything?" The barmaid looked ready to shoot daggers with her eyes. "Because if you've got nothing to say, you and Fiery Red over there can go empty those seats for the people waiting outside.

   Draco thought fast and turned on the charm. "Sorry about that, you were just so... distractingly pretty." She was. She _certainly_ was. "But if you had a drink for every time some drunken lout said that to you..."

   Ten minutes later, he was leading Weasley by the hand down the dim underground stairs of the Quill and the Tankard, carefully levitating a satisfyingly large barrel of some Highlands brand of Firewhisky. "What did you _do_ , Malfoy?" she demanded in awe, holding aloft her wand to illuminate their way.

   Truth be told, the barmaid had been on the verge of pouring a pitcher of cider over his head until he thought even faster and produced a handful of Galleons. She'd changed her tune quite fast after that.

   He turned his head to give Weasley a tiny, smug smirk. "I spoke to her. She promptly melted."

   She snorted. "Bollocks."

   "Think what you like," he said, calculatedly feigning indifference. He was gratified to see something like unwilling admiration on her face.

   "How deep does this pit go anyway?" she muttered from behind him, as the stairs steeped deeper into nothing. Draco had to keep one hand against the wall to make sure he didn't miss his footing on the shallow, uneven, crudely made steps. He didn't want to imagine what Weasley would do to him if he caused the barrel of Firewhisky were to fall and smash.

   At the base of the stairs, there was a bolted wooden door, almost rusted in its latch. It took their combined strength to push it open and they emerged in a cellar room. It seemed to have doubled as the receptacle for the pub, for it was filled with forgotten cardboard boxes, barrels, bins, candle stubs, empty shelves and a cupboard. Weasley ignited the torches in the brackets with her wand, and Draco produced the two cups he'd nicked from upstairs. He broke into the barrel, scooping out generous helpings of liquor for them both. Enthroned atop a coffee table that was so short (or she so tall) that her toes still brushed the floor, she accepted her cup with a grateful grin.

   "Cheers to your ingenuity, Malfoy. I don't want to think where we'd be without it."

   More like his gold. Draco tapped his cup against hers, and finished his drink in one unflinching swallow. Whoever said money couldn't buy happiness, obviously never had much of it. "Congratulations, by the way," he said. "On the win. Just in case, you haven't heard a lot of that today."

   She offered him a smile. "Thanks. Better to hear it from a Malfoy than no one, I suppose." But she was still smiling, and there was no real rancour in her tone.

   "Careful, Weasley, or else I might regret going to all the trouble and expense of procuring something other than cider for you."

   "Good thing I drank all of mine then."

   "This means I won't be getting you a refill." He smirked, but she remained unperturbed, lightly kicking him in the shin and thrusting her cup mock-belligerently at him. " _Fine_. Since you asked so nicely."

   He got them both refills. She cheered up noticeably at the prospect of more Firewhisky, and once more he was reminded of the way Pansy's eyes lit up when she bit into a Sugar Quill at the end of a long day. Except where Pansy's eyes were dark and kohl-rimmed and never not very nice, Weasley had very nice eyes. Toffee-coloured. It was a shame she'd probably close them if he were to kiss her.

   "You're probably enjoying this," said a girl's voice, startling him out of his reverie. _Yes_ , he thought, imagining she'd probably taste like liquor and apple if he were to kiss her. _Yes, I am_. Weasley was looking at him oddly, and he flushed, cottoning on quick that wasn't what she had meant. He hastily dropped into the nearest chair, angling himself away from her so she wouldn't see him cross his legs. He took a long drain from his cup. His throat seared, but it was a handy distraction.

   "What, watching Other Weasley and Granger finish last to Potter?" His voice came out raspy. From the drink, naturally. "That's not such a feat anymore. I've been seeing that since I was eleven."

   Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her frown, but she didn't take the bait. "You do know Hermione also qualifies as 'Other Weasley' too, don't you? So do I, in fact."

   He waved her off. "No, Granger's always going to be Granger. 'Hermione Weasley' sounds like the name you'd give your kid if you never wanted her to survive her first year unscathed. And you're not 'Other Weasley'. You used to be. You're not. Anymore, that is. You're..."

   "Got a better name for me, Malfoy?" She said it dripping with sarcasm, half-amused all the same.

   "Yeah, I do." _No_ , he thought, _I don't_. She was just... 'Weasley' in his head. What else was there to call her? Red? Weasley...ette? Girl Weasley? "You're Ginny. That's what you are."

   The cellar had gone oddly silent. Nonplussed, he shifted in his seat to look at her. She was looking directly back at him. Her shoulders had gone oddly rigidly and she was holding her half-full cup very tightly. "What does that mean?"

   "Don't know." She was Ginny, he realised. He'd never called her that because she'd always been a Weasley to him, just one more of the horde. She'd never been distinct, her own person before. Wisely, he knew better than to say that aloud. "It means... you're you. And you and Potter scored a win today, even though everyone else is in national mourning—"

   "Because his best friends didn't, yeah," she finished. She shook her head and took a tiny sip. "My friends, too. Sort of."

   He privately disagreed; family wasn't the same as friends. Potter, of all people, knew that, if any of the ridiculous stories about his Muggle aunt and uncle were true. "It's hard," he said instead. "To be a winner, you know. When our society's dedicated to the glorification of losers."

   "Cheers to _that_."

    Draco got up from the table, crossing over to the barrel to refill his cup again. He filled it to the brim, and gingerly carried it back to where Ginny was sitting. It was excruciating, trying not to spill a single drop.

   "What—"

   "Here. You said you didn't want to be sober." He caught her by the wrist, infinitely gently, to hold her hand steady while he poured out some of the Firewhisky from his cup into hers. She didn't pull away. She was unwaveringly steady under his touch.

   "Thank you," she said. It was high praise for being a glorified waiter. She set down her cup, bracing herself on the coffee table as she lifted herself up on the table. For a second, Draco didn't know what she was doing, and remained frozen where he stood. Her lips touched his cheek, leaving a warm imprint on his skin. He found himself, slowly, deliberately, turning his head, and her lips were on his and he could taste that warmth. Firewhisky sloshed over his hand-tailored leather shoes, but he simply kicked the cup aside, stepping closer. She welcomed him, one arm curling around the back of his neck to draw him down, and it was like being kissed by fire.

**Round Five: _White Stag_**

 

A peck of owls bearing flooded the office of the _Daily Prophet_ , the joke shop on Diagon Alley, and even Castamere Hall with strongly-worded letters. The general populace had obviously not put much stock in the official statement from Weasley Wizarding Wheezes that no Thestrals had been harmed in the making of the fourth round, and that the farriers and Rolf Scamander himself had been on hand to oversee safety of magical creatures. The letter-writers were utterly incensed at the abuse inherent in shoeing winged magical animals with hooves under extremely supervised conditions. Remus Lupin wrote privately to the twins to tell them to hold their course. No one had even batted an eyelash when the Blacks in the Wizengamot were hog-tying Merpeople; while this concern for Dark creatures was heartening, it too would pass.

   Fred and George's reaction to the outcry was to reiterate their position and remind them of the fifth event: hunting. The controversy had boosted their ticket sales. For some (presumably unrelated reason) trick wands that fired rubber chickens were flying off the joke shop shelves as well.

   Not all was well in Castamere Hall in the days leading up to the fifth round. Justin and Terry decided to follow Hannah and Neville's example and move out (not in together.) No matter how sincere their congratulations and well wishes sounded, it was undeniable that they couldn't wait to leave. Even at the big farewell party Fred and George had thrown impromptu for them, they looked like they had one foot out the door.

   On the other hand, Ron and Hermione had taken less than a minute to discuss the issue. To Ginny, it looked like they'd just glanced at each other, nodded in this completely in-sync way, and shrugged and told Harry he'd have tough luck getting them to leave.

   "Besides," Ron had said unrepentantly, "I want to watch as you beat Malfoy."

   "Sitting right here," Pansy had called out, from the other end of the parlour where she was huddled with Blaise Zabini and Draco by the fire. Once again, she was trying to suck out all the oxygen from Zabini's personal space, but Draco didn't even look up in Ginny's direction. It was only to be expected after how emphatically she'd told him in the cellar of the Quill and the Tankard that _no one_ must _ever_ find out (and what she'd do to him, if they did.)

  The worst part was that Luna wasn't staying. She and Rolf were going to the Appalachian Mountains where Newt Scamander had set up camp. "He was sad he couldn't come see the Kappa and his brothers," said Luna, whereas Ginny was sad her matchmaking efforts were being terminated. The closest she got was Luna stuffing something that looked like white plum flowers covered in pollen into Harry's pockets.

   "For luck," she had promised. "They keep out all the woods mites."

   "Er, thanks," said Harry, bemused. He looked half-touched, half-horrified when he inspected the flowers. He was too gentlemanly to empty his pockets while Luna was still around. He had no such qualms the second she skipped towards the fireplace arms linked with Rolf. ("I kept wondering why they were so itchy. They had _teeth_ , Hermione, _little teeth_.")

 

The four remaining teams soon learnt why Rolf Scamander had recommended striking up a bond with the Thestrals: the winged beasts would be their mounts during the hunting event. There was only one rule: find the elusive White Stag and feed it a blade of magical grass. There would be no wands and no saddles, and Thestrals preferred to fly _above_ the tree line, so possibly no luck finding a great shining white deer in the dense forest. Draco might have been (grudgingly) impressed by the Weasleys' ability to turn the stadium into whatever they wanted, but he had bigger problems.

   (Well, not as bad as Alicia Spinnet who couldn't see Thestrals and had to be given a leg-up up by a grim-faced Angelina Johnson.)

   As winners of the last round, Potter and Ginny (" _Winning!"_ she yelled unrepentantly when the fact was brought up), would be getting a map of the magical forest. Draco knew he wanted that map and that he wanted to kiss her. Neither sat well with him.

   Physically as well, because he felt a sudden jerk under him that nearly sent him to the ground as the Thestral took flight. Locking his arms around his mount's neck, he looked down in alarm to see the ground rapidly tilting away from under him. The air around him was filled with flying riders, and for a second, he lost sight of Pansy. Screwing up his courage, he leaned forward, yelling, "Go down there!" in the general direction of his Thestral's ear. He didn't know how much English they understood, but this one seemed to be smarter than most and obediently dipped into a steep dive, crashing through the canopy of leaves and branches to land him on the ground. (He wasn't entirely sure that wasn't on purpose.)

   He clambered off and got to his feet stiffly. Could the beasts be any bonier? Surrounded by virgin forest on all four sides, Draco was reminded of the worst detention he'd ever served. Father had been furious about it, and had chewed out Professor Snape for letting Draco be exposed to such life-threatening conditions, and he hoped Professor Snape had chewed out old Dumbledore in turn, as well. Granted, nothing had come out of it in the end, but Draco had been bombarded with sweets from Mother and received a very cushy homecoming that year. The memory helped keep his spirits up as he stared awkwardly around himself and wondered where Pansy was, and how he was supposed to find her.

   " _You_ don't know how to hunt deer, do you?" he asked the Thestral. "Or rabbits, even. Anything really. I'm not very picky at this point. A little help would be appreciated."

   It cocked its head and pretended to inspect the sky, as if it couldn't hear him. Arse.

  The sound of a twig snapping underfoot made him spin around, alert and suspicious. "Pansy?" he called out hopefully. "About time. I don't really fancy becoming meat for a Mackled Malaclaw."

   "Don't be so dramatic," scoffed someone else entirely. "Malaclaws are only found in coastal Europe."

   He fought to pretend that his heart wasn't hammering so hard his chest felt bruised. "And Thestrals are rarer than red hair on your centenary-old grandmother's head, Weasley, so I'm afraid I don't see your point."

   She didn't seem remotely put out by that. "Weasley, is it now? What happened to—" She lowered her voice to a comically deeper register. " _You're Ginny_. _That's what you are_."

   Draco turned the exact same shade as her hair, which was a feat for his extremely pale colouring. She was coming ever so much closer, her boots covered in mud and leaves, her hair windblown, her cheeks high with colour from flying. He didn't think she looked pretty. Not pretty at all.

   "It was your idea for us to stay out of each other's way, Weasley," he said as coldly as he could. "Stick to it." The indignant tremble in his voice was entirely unwarranted. Pissed off, that's what he was. Very, _very_ pissed off and not remotely thrilled at the idea of sneaking kisses in a forest that wasn't real, unlike the risk of discovery.

   She shook her head, a cat-like smile curving up her lips. "My rules, my prerogative to break them."

   There was some twelve inches between them, and Draco had a bad feeling he was losing all control of the situation. He didn't like it.

   "And what if I _don't_ want you to break those rules?"

   He decided she had the worst laugh. He liked the sound of it even less than her smile. "I don't think you understand how rule-breaking works, _Draco_."

   "We could be seen. Seconds flat. Would just take the wrong person to lumber through those trees—"

   "Then I promise I'll be quick."

   He swallowed hard. His throat was dry. "I'd rather you take your time."

   "Then I'll go so slow, you'll be begging me." Her lips were soft, like a butterfly landing, as gentle as she'd promised, and every fibre of his body suddenly screamed because he wanted more. He wanted _her_.

 

Fred and George were, despite what one might think, gracious in the face of defeat. Much as they might not like it, they were professional enough to be generous. That was what the _Prophet_ said, at any rate; there were some very good reasons to doubt the neutrality of the reporter. After all, she had been seen at Castamere Hall, interviewing the competitors, drinking too much punch, and mistaking George for his brother in a manner sufficient to detonate Angelina's ire. (Her temper was already on a hair-trigger basis on account of their loss. It was almost inevitable, what with her partner not being able to see her own horse.)

   "I'll be the first to admit I didn't see that coming," George later said in an interview after the fifth round.

   "Hidden depths, who knew those were there?" added Fred, shrugging. He had been remarkably reticent on the subject of George, the reporter, and mistaken identity. "We had such high hopes for our sister."

   "She even had the map," lamented George. "Well, her and Harry. Potent combination, that one. _Such_ high hopes. But," he added, recovering himself, "congratulations to Pansy and Malfoy." Fred nudged him. "Draco. Pansy and Draco. Congratulations again, and hope that leg heals fast. Wouldn't want you disadvantaged in the next round."

 

Blaise came to visit Draco by his sick bed, bringing with him a newspaper and fish soup. "It's got Plimpies," he promised. "Lovegood left the recipe with the kitchen cook before she scampered off to go see the Yanks."

   The very thought of Plimpies instantly made Draco lose his appetite. "No, thank you." He grimaced when Blaise set the steaming bowl down on the nearest dresser. The room he shared with Pansy was big enough for four people, and had twin beds. She rarely spent the night in there, favouring the king-size in Blaise's room instead.

   "Come to congratulate me?" he asked.

   Blaise pretended to consider. "No, this was just an extremely elaborate excuse to come see Pansy." He toed his shoes off, and sprawled elegantly over the empty bed. Draco wondered uncharitably how many times Blaise had practised that in the mirror. "You should have known that would come in handy. Her father and his obsession with falconry. One wizard in a hundred who breeds birds to act scouts for his hunting trips, and you were partnered with his daughter. Where were you, by the way? Pansy says she didn't see you until—"

   Until he was discovered with a mauled leg, thanks in no small part to the Porlock that had ambushed him out of nowhere. Damn the Weasleys and their idea of obstacles. Porlocks were confounding little creatures that served only one purpose in nature: protect horses. Draco had no idea why kissing a girl on a forest floor within earshot of a downright chills-inducing equine beast counted as a threat, but the Porlock had obviously disagreed. (His only consolation was that Ginny hadn't actually _wanted_ to leave him once she helped him get free, but there had been no other choice. It was either pretend she had never been there, or watch him get lynched by her brother.)

   "You think you'll be in any fit state to compete in the next round?" asked Blaise. He shook out his newspaper, turning to the Game of Thrones coverage first, as he always did these days.

   Draco gingerly touched his knee. It felt like a red hot poker was being driven through his leg. "It'll be a Christmas miracle for Potter and Wealsey, if I _wasn't_. Don't place your bets on miracles, Zabini."

 

He didn't know when he had drifted off, but the next time his eyes fluttered open, the room was pitch dark and there was someone sitting at the foot of his bed. " _Pansy_?" he hissed in alarm. "That's _my_ thigh you're feeling up. Blaise must have left hours ago."

   She smacked him playfully (he certainly hoped so; the alternative was that she was trying to kill him.) "It's _me_ , you thick idiot. Parkinson's flouncing around in the garden somewhere."

   Draco shot up in bed, nearly doing himself a critical injury in the process. He muffled a yelp and scrambled for his wand. Her hand was upon his in a second, fingers entwining with his to stop him. "No, don't," whispered Ginny. "It'll look odd if the lights go on in your room."

   He didn't reach for his wand, but he didn't release her hand either. She held on, too. "What are you doing here?"

   "Why, congratulating you."

   He felt her slim fingers sliding up under his shirt, like tendrils of fire. It was clumsy trying to kiss her in the dark, but his mouth found hers and her nails tightened against his sternum when he wrapped one arm around her and all but lifted her into his lap. The satin bedclothes rustled as she shifted, straddling him and pinning him down. He could just barely see her, but the feel of the buttons of his shirt popping off one after another told him how tantalisingly close she was—

   "If you two are going to go at it like a pair of rabbits, I'd prefer that you waited until _after_ I left."

   Ginny froze. Draco nearly shoved her off the bed in his haste to sit up, fix his hair and redo his shirt all at once.

   "Oh, and don't bother pretending that it's not Weasley you've got there." There was a sniff, and the crinkle of newspaper. "You're lucky everyone else is ridiculously oblivious, or else they'd all know just why you seemed to disappear in the middle of today's round."

   Trust Blaise to hold on to the information like a trump card. He could hear Ginny holding her breath, probably wishing that she could disappear into thin air. Or Disapparate.

   "Look, can we have the bloody lights back on? I'm sure Weasley's got nothing I haven't seen before, and I know _you've_ got bits that I _have_ seen."

   Ginny snickered. "The Slytherin Quidditch team locker room?"

   "If only," the other two groaned in unison.

   " _Lumos_." Wand light illuminated her face shakily, her hand trembling.

   "I'm not going to go running to tell the rest of the clan, if that's what you're afraid of," said Blaise, with a hint of exasperation. "I have no great love for you, and some regard for _him_. I don't want to be the reason he was sent to an early grave."

   "Oi, I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

   He was not gratified to hear Ginny laugh at that, but her hand rubbing circles on his back felt oddly comforting. "Don't worry, I'll don a suit of armour and come riding in to protect you."

   "You might have to," said Blaise cryptically. "Very soon." He didn't stop to explain. He picked up his paper, put his shoes back on, and retrieved the now-cold bowl of soup he'd carried in earlier. He quietly let himself out the door with a terse nod of acknowledgement in Ginny's direction.

   When they were alone again, she didn't put the light out, but she sat back down on his bed, this time noticeably higher. "That was nice of him," she said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't have thought Zabini had it in him."

   "Don't let it fool you. He's still the same guy he's always been." Bigoted, arrogant, opportunistic. The only difference, Draco reflected, was that Blaise had decided to be on Ginny's side, on account of his friend. That was the only reason she was seeing any of his better qualities.

   It seemed that her mind was running down a different track. "Why is Parkinson always slobbering over him like a complete cow?" she asked. "Doesn't she know that's the fastest way to lose him?" In the bright light, she saw the look on his face. "Oh. You already knew that."

   "So does she," he said quietly.

**Round Six: _Ercker_**

 

Everyone was speculating Pansy Parkinson's chances of success before she'd even begun. The naysayers pointed out quite reasonably that the tournament allowed teams for a reason: winning an event was a two-man job. The loyalists argued that her loss of a partner would be countered by the fact that she'd be given an advantage from the previous round, not to mention that it would be _extremely_ satisfying to see Harry Potter not come out on top for a change. ("Jealous, are they?" Ron smirked when he first heard about it, giving Harry a friendly nudge; "You know you'll flatten them." Harry had glanced askance at him and thanked him for not putting on the pressure.)

   Draco wished he bring himself to get out of bed and help her even the odds, but (to no one else's surprise) he was still too grievously injured to walk. He heard Weasley say, "Isn't this like the time he pretended his cold was tuberculosis, just so that that Slytherin wouldn't have to play in the rain?" Draco churlishly wanted to point out Weasley's sister was the reason he was in this predicament in the first place: on her way out from his room the other night, she'd accidentally leaned too hard on his leg. The resulting scream had woken up all of Castamere Hall, and Ginny just barely managed to Disapparate before Blaise charged in through the door.

   Of course, she hadn't come to see him since then, going back to studiously avoiding him. He played up being the invalid and made his friends wait on him, until Pansy threatened to mummify him in the bedsheets. That didn't stop her from popping in before she left for the stadium for the sixth round.

  "Good luck!" he yelled after her, before burrowing deeper under the covers and pretending to lock out the rest of the world. The Healer from the village had come highly recommended and had strongly suggested not taking anything medicinal for the Porlock bite unless it went wrong. Draco once had an uncle Abraxas who spent eighteen hours a day in a haze induced by a Potion made of Billwig stings. He reflected that some of that would be nice just then. There was no way Pansy could hold her own against the likes of Ginny _and_ Potter, and he would like to be in a happy place in his head when he received the news of their loss.

 

The argument had been raging for the last twenty minutes, and Draco was starting to get a headache. A literal, temple-pounding, face-aching physical reaction from the sound of their voices. The worst part was that they were arguing _outside_ his room, which meant that a thick, heavy wooden door separated him from them, and yet he could hear every damn word. _Merlin's underpants_ , he wanted to shout, _it was just a bet. Pay up and shut up_.

   A hesitant knock sounded on the door, nearly lost underneath the sound of belligerent voices. "Come in," ordered Draco, grateful for a distraction. He immediately revised his opinion when Harry Potter walked in.

   Draco clambered to sit up in bed, smoothing back his hair and trying to look less like a vegetable. He had a good suspicion that he wouldn't get much from the invalid approach with Potter, so best to try intimidation instead.

   "Hello," said Potter hesitantly, looking as if he wanted to sit down. He wasn't invited to do so. "I guess you've heard about what happened."

   "I can hear what's _happening_ , if that's what you mean." Draco jerked his head in the direction of the door. It was half-closed, and he could see a silver of Blaise's back. The front probably looked just as disinterested and nonchalant, and that couldn't be doing any wonders for Pansy's temper. ("He's so passive-aggressive," she'd wailed a thousand times over. He wanted to pat her on the knee and tell her that's just how Blaise was, but that didn't sound very comforting.)

   "No, I meant the tournament." Potter radiated discomfort like Loony Lovegood sending out vibes of pure weirdness. "You haven't heard about it, then? The, er, results revelation."

   "Tell Chang and Patil I said tough luck. I was looking forward to playing them in the final round." And _that_ was how you delivered a zinger. Draco was basking happily in his own glory, when Potter managed to ruin even that.

   "What are you talking about, Malfoy?" he asked, frowning. "There were no winners of this round. Not officially, anyway. I mean, good for Pansy, fishing out all those gold nuggets from the muck, but the idea was that the team with the fewest, loses. That was it. I'm talking about the _rest_ of what happens."

   Draco had a bad feeling he wasn't going to like this.

   Potter took a deep breath. "Remember that there's going to be a turncoat round?"

   The look that Draco gave him was pure suspicion and hatred. "And now you've come to murder me in my bed."

   "Oh, Malfoy. If only I had."

**Round Seven: _Marshal Boucicaut_**

 

"Good morning, partner!"

   Draco cracked open one eye, and all hope of this being a dream withered. "Just confirming, even though I will be cruelly disabused of any such notion, but... what are the chances that this is a dream?"

   "Let's check," said Ginny sweetly, leaning in to twist his ear as hard she could.

   " _Oi!_ "

   "Don't fall off your horse. That's all that anyone can ask of you at this point."

   He glared at his mount, distrusting anything sentient that had wings. He had come no closer to bonding with the Thestral, not since it had happily stood by and let a Porlock attack him. One could say that Potter had fallen heavily in the ranks of his list of mortal enemies, usurped by the horse.

   "This is a terrible idea," he had told Fred and George Weasley an hour earlier, and he was, if nothing else, always right. This was a terrible, awful, morality-destroying, mind-bogglingly bad idea. He should have taken Potter's head off when it was first suggested, and done the world a favour. Maybe the grisly death of the Chosen One wouldn't have changed the rules of the tournament, but it would have made Draco feel significantly better.

   Deep down, they'd all known the turncoat round was coming, and there was no hope of it being pleasant. It said so in its very name! Turncoats! No one liked turncoats! Potter agreed with him on that count, at least, thankfully. Fred and George had apparently beamingly announced how it would work. Two teams and four competitors qualified for the final round, as a result of their perfectly synchronised teamwork and mutual trust. The seventh round was an excellent time to demolish all of that: the two teams would be reconstituted by swapping members. In other words, Draco was now paired with Ginny (excellent, sort of) and it was Potter who was getting Pansy.

   The head that Draco didn't keep around for its intellectual ability argued for this being an excellent idea. The problem was that the seventh event was a tourney: a _joust_. On the backs of flying horses, armed with gigantic lances. He would have nary a complaint if it was him against Potter, Ginny against Pansy; girls versus girls, gender equality and all that hat. All's well that ends well.

   "You don't find anything _remotely_ problematic about this, Fred? Nothing at all?"

   George noted, with some surprise, that his brother had now been elevated to a first-name basis with the _Prophet_ reporter. It explained why he'd found a frilly, lacy garment in their room at Castamere Hall earlier that morning. Angelina certainly hadn't visited, but now George knew why Fred had locked him out of there for hours on end last night.

   "Don't know what you're talking about," said Fred airily. "We never heard this much outcry when the Hollyhead Harpies go up against Pride of Portree."

   "That's not technically true," objected George. "Portree never seems to shut up how hard those Beaters hit the ball."

   "See, there you go. We don't believe in upholding some sort of artificial gender stereotype."

   "It's bad business, that's what it is."

   "And besides, it's not really being a _turncoat_ , is it—"

   "—Unless you're smashing a ten-foot lance into your former partner and friend."

 

Being fitted for his armour turned out to be a small nightmare. Draco soon learnt that he was too small to fit into his, and the breastplate-contractor had to be searched for. Ultimately, the armourer got fed up and magically shrunk the pauldron until it was nearly melded with the chainmail he wore underneath.

   "Could have gotten you a girl's suit," grumbled the wizard while he worked, "but you had to be too bleeding tall, didn't you, Pointy?" When Draco opened his mouth to object, the armourer slammed closed the visor of his helm. "That girl of yours is no better either. Twiggy, she is. Girls weren't made to be that tall, and if they are, why couldn't she have been built like a barrel? Would at least fit into some of the suits we've got. Ridiculous. You two, matched set, you are. Now, get out. That's the best I can do for you. Try not to get stabbed. Tourney lances they might be, but still a lance. Beware the pointy end."

   Draco marched bow-legged to his Thestral, glad that there was another small army to help him mount the saddle. The damn beast beat its wings twice hard, rising off the ground. "Down!" he snapped, "not this again." It took three tries to convince the horse to remain terrestrial.

   At least Ginny didn't seem to have fared any better, and Potter looked downright ludicrous. Or maybe it was because he was Potter: nothing about him exuded much dignity. The lance was fitted into Draco's hand, and he could see Pansy saddling up on the other end of the stadium. She was very far away, and yet the wooden weapon gleamed in her grip. The pointy end smirked at him, promising a painful end.

   He felt someone shift closer to him, but his gaze was trained on Pansy. Last night had been hell. She'd unceremoniously evicted Potter from the room, locked the door after him, and demanded that he scoot over in bed. She'd even hogged the covers, not bothering to take off her shoes. She'd ripped open a new bag of Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans, attempted a grin of delight when it turned out to be mint flavour, and told announced with disconcerting indifference, "We ended things, Blaise and I. It's over." He couldn't remember ever hearing her sound so completely beaten, like the last of the fight had been wrung out of her. It was the worst sound he'd ever heard.

   "Draco."

   He floated back to reality on the sound of Ginny's voice. "Hey." Her visor was up, the helm still obscuring most of her face. "We'll win. Don't worry, we will." Her smile was too bright to look directly at.

   Leaning down, he flicked her visor closed. "You and I, what?"

   "Victors."

 

George Weasley had been oddly prophetic: the force with which Ginny's lance had driven into Harry (hard enough to snap its end off) would have done the Harpy Beaters proud. Pansy unhorsed Draco in the first tilt.

   He picked himself off the ground, dusty and stunned. It was an effort to remove his helm, his whole head was ringing from the fall. Or maybe it was a hallucination. Because Ginny Weasley was kneeling in front of him, fingers clumsy in iron as she tried to remove his helm.

   "I don't mind," she said. Draco wondered if he'd ingested those Billywig stings after all. Were they in the stadium? Were they ringed by spectators, friends and family on all sides?  _Had he just lost three thousand Galleons_ ? But all he could see was Ginny, half-blinded by the sun and fire. "We still won." And then she kissed him. Nothing else seemed to matter.

**Author's Note:**

> -All magical creatures and Quidditch teams referred to in this fic are from canon.
> 
> -The name of the tournament, "A Game of Thrones," is in reference to the first book of George R. R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire series_ , and its television adaptation.
> 
> -Seven as a potent number is true for both _Harry Potter_ canon and for a dominant religion in ASoIaF.
> 
> -"We don't breathe [sic] gold" is a paraphrase of a line from ASoIaF. A character threatens the patriarch of an extremely wealthy family by saying, "Tell Lord Tywin that winter is coming for him. Twenty thousand northerners, marching south to see if he really does shit gold."
> 
> -Castamere Hall is another one from ASoIaF. Castamere was the seat of Lord Reyne, a proud noble, who rebelled against his liege lord, and was decimated as a result. _Rains of Castamere_ is a song sung about the incident, with the lyric, "And now the rains weep o'er his halls, with no one there to hear."
> 
> -Honey-wine is another name for mead.
> 
> -Hope Greyjoy is a reference to the ASoIaF character, Asha Greyjoy, who hails from an island kingdom somewhat similar to the Vikings. Asha means _hope_ in several Indian languages.
> 
> - _Keeping Up with the Krakens_ is a double reference. The first is to the actual reality series, _Keeping Up With the Kardashians_. The second is that the kraken is the sigil of the aforementioned Greyjoys.
> 
> -[Shakuni](http://www.sacred-texts.com/hin/iml/iml20.htm) is a mythological figure from the epic, _Mahabharat_. He was a prolific and skilled gambler, who cheated his royal nephews out of their inheritance, legacy and kingdom by playing a game with loaded dice. It's not a perfect analogy for a medieval chess player, but I couldn't think of anything else.
> 
> -[ Makera Assada](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Makera_Assada).
> 
> -Draco's memory about riding a Krup like a horse is a reference to how French actor Gaspard Ulliel tried to ride a dog like that when he was seven, and received his famous facial scar which most people mistake for a dimple.
> 
> -At one point, Fred and George say, "You win and you die." This is a spin on an ASoIaF character who says, "You win or you die," in reference to playing political games and court intrigues.
> 
> -The Quill and the Tankard is a tavern in ASoIaF, and famous for its strong cider.
> 
> -Draco thinking "The dumbest count...ryman alive" echoes aforementioned Asha Greyjoy's sentiment about her younger brother. She didn't bother using the euphemism.
> 
> -"It's hard to be a winner in a society dedicated to the glorification of losers." Wilbur Smith, _Hungry as the Sea_.
> 
> -"Kissed by fire" is an expression from ASoIaF. It refers to a character's red hair, which is considered lucky in a society that lives in Siberian conditions. (Fire is also important to them for plot-relevant, spoiler-filled reasons.)
> 
> -The White Stag has been taken from C. S. Lewis's _Chronicles of Narnia_ , but it's prevalent in myths otherwise.
> 
> -[Lazarus Ercker](http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/191119/Lazarus-Ercker)
> 
> was the superintendent of mines at Annaberg during the Renaissance. The gradual (but certain) shift towards historical accuracy is supposed to imply Hermione's influence winning over Harry's.
> 
> -[Marshal Boucicaut](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Le_Maingre).
> 
> -In ASoIaF, a character who's too fat for his suit of armour trolls his squire by demanding he fetch the "breastplate-stretcher." As his friend says afterwards, "Maybe you should have one invented."
> 
> -"Beware the pointy end" is paraphrased (and with much less witty effect) from the swordplay advice in ASoIaF, "Stick 'em with the pointy end."


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